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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29189502">into a white and soundless place</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonsivy/pseuds/poisonsivy'>poisonsivy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dad Philza Minecraft, Death, Gen, Ghost Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Ghost Wilbur Soot, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Resurrection, Smoking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:27:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,161</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29189502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonsivy/pseuds/poisonsivy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He has only good memories, but even those are more flashes of moments and emotions so dizzying they make the ghost feel vacant, vacuous. There's a country, haphazardly constructed and a little ugly but filled with love. There's a girl, so kind it makes Wilbur ache to know her again. There's a bakery too, the smell of fresh bread and the sound of laughter. There's a blonde boy, and Wilbur knows it's Tommy but his features are fuzzy and obscured. There's more laughter. </i>
</p><p>  <i>Living, breathing Wilbur laughed a lot.</i></p><p>Or: There must be a reason that Wilbur's loved ones are being haunted by his ghost.</p><p>––<br/>a resurrection ghostbur fic. title from love love love by the mountain goats</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eret &amp; Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy &amp; Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt &amp; Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>213</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>into a white and soundless place</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tw for death, implied suicide, and mentions of blood. its all super light but just wanna make sure everyone stays safe!</p><p>we're playin fast and loose with the canon here so this is canon compliant with emphasis on compliant.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Was I loved?" the ghost of Wilbur Soot asks.</p><p>Tommy pauses, he has a faraway look in his eyes. He's much too young to be alone in exile, and much too young to be haunted by the ghost of his brother. "You were." he says after a moment, eyes still unfocused. “Loved.” </p><p>"Up until the end?”</p><p>"You were loved even in the end." Tommy is plagued by memories of explosions. Wilbur is not. Tommy remembers the way the ground shook before buckling underneath him. He remembers the way the crater looked in the aftermath, like an open wound. He remembers the screams of his friends and, clear as a bell, Dream's victorious laughter as his enemies destroyed themselves.</p><p>He remembers Wilbur's body slumped over Philza, a sword sticking out of his back.</p><p>The ghost doesn't remember anything from that day. Tommy isn't sure whose curse is worse to bear.</p><p>"But I didn't get a funeral. Why didn't I get a funeral?" Wilbur asks a lot of questions these days, as one is prone to do when all your memories are left to rot with your corpse. Tommy is never sure how to answer these questions. "Even Schlatt got a funeral."</p><p>Tommy falls quiet again and turns back to his work. He's filling the gaps of the wooden roof in Logstedshire with a clay mixture. The rain has been getting in and sizzling against Wilbur's ghostly form. It’s been making him a bit glum, so Tommy took it upon himself to fix the holes. He finishes with a particularly large one, climbing down from his perch on a support beam and setting aside his bucket.</p><p>"I don't think people were ready to say goodbye to you. Schlatt... he caused a lot of damage. He pushed everyone who loved him away. In the end... we were ready to say goodbye." Tommy's eyes fall on Wilbur's ghost, but he doesn't really see him. Wilbur, not for the first time, wonders who Tommy sees when he looks at him. The loving brother, who protected Tommy as a child. The clever president, celebrating his country's independence. The broken exile, unrecognizable to those who loved him. Or the ghost, an empty shell, a facsimile of who he used to be. "I wasn't ready to say goodbye." The clock on the wall above their heads ticks steadily as rain begins to fall.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Wilbur is gone for a while. He doesn't know where he went. Logstedshire is gone when he gets back. There's a crater where the house once was; the sight of it fills him with unimaginable dread. Some lucid part of him knows why, and knows he won't remember this the moment he turns away. The ghost of Wilbur Soot does not remember dreadful things.</p><p>He has only good memories, but even those are more flashes of moments and emotions so dizzying they make the ghost feel vacant, vacuous. There's a country, haphazardly constructed and a little ugly but filled with love. There's a girl, so kind it makes Wilbur ache to know her again. There's a bakery too, the smell of fresh bread and the sound of laughter. There's a blonde boy, and Wilbur knows it's Tommy but his features are fuzzy and obscured. There's more laughter.</p><p>Living, breathing Wilbur laughed a lot.</p><p>The memories of his and Technoblade's childhood are the most vivid. Precious moments made nearly tangible by joy. There's the tip of a wooden practice sword pressed to his chin paired with laughter so loud it fills the space where Wilbur's lungs should be. There's them pulling potatoes out of the ground, the sun bearing down, and sweat on his upper lip. And Philza, building a fire as the snow falls endlessly, door rattling against the wind, a cloak stuffed under it to keep out the biting chill. Techno’s teeth chattering, never used to Overworld winters. Tommy's first day home, he’s terrified but cracking jokes anyways. A home, small but warm and filled with laughter. The ghost does not feel things with the same clarity Wilbur did, but he knows enough to recognize that this is important, that these people are important.</p><p>Wilbur turns away from Logstedshire and forgets.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Technoblade exiled himself after his brother died. Retreated to the snowy wastelands far beyond even Dream's reach. Wilbur passes through the snow to a cozy cabin. Lantern light glows through the windows, warm yellow and orange spilling out onto the snow. Flakes fall in lazy flurries that hiss against the ghost. He winces a little as each makes contact.</p><p>Wilbur makes it to Techno’s door still mostly intact. He doesn't knock, just phases right through the door instead. Techno is carefully brewing potions, gaze fixated on the bubbling flasks. </p><p>"Hello, Technoblade!" the ghost greets jovially.</p><p>"Hello, Ghostbur," Techno returns. The ghost floats idly for a moment, letting the silence linger.</p><p>"Technoblade," he begins innocently enough, "why didn't I get a funeral?"</p><p>Techno lets out a shaking breath. He switches the potions out carefully, replacing them with fresh water bottles. The new bottles begin to bubble before Techno has an answer. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, then turns away from his brewing stands.</p><p>"Schlatt got a funeral," Wilbur says.</p><p>"He did." Techno looks at the hollowed-out version of his brother, the person he grew up with, and wishes desperately things had been different. He doesn't know how to have this conversation.</p><p>Techno remembers. He remembers the clack of wooden practice swords, Wilbur falling to the ground, losing but laughing anyway. Techno remembers the way the laughter spilled out of his own chest. Wilbur had always been the best sparring partner. He didn't care about getting better; swordsmanship never impressed him, but he knew it mattered to Techno.</p><p>He remembers the day Wilbur left, taking Tommy with him. Phil looked uncharacteristically nervous, fiddling with Wilbur's bags and straightening Tommy's scarf. Tommy looked wide-eyed, whether that was from excitement or fear had yet to be seen. He kept ruffling his hair every time Phil fixed it with shaking hands tugging at the strands. Wilbur though, Wilbur looked ecstatic. His yellow sweater was cleaner than Techno had ever seen it, and he was grinning widely throughout all of Phil's lectures, which was probably the most distressing thing about the whole affair. The lectures were never pleasant. Technoblade remembers Wilbur's retreating back as they left home for good, Wilbur talking excitedly, his hands waving, and Tommy, looking up at his brother with awe.</p><p>Techno remembers the day he arrived at Pogtopia, following a distress call from his youngest brother. There was something different; something distinctly wrong with Wilbur. He remembers the way Tommy nervously recounted the story to Techno, shooting desperate glances at Wilbur. He remembers the rage in Wilbur’s eyes, the determination.</p><p>Worst of all, he remembers the way Wilbur was in exile from the country he loved, the country he built. He remembers the shouts across the ravine, and Wilbur ripping down Tommy’s decorations. He remembers Wilbur’s cruel laughter. This new Wilbur seemed to make it his goal to tear down Tommy, to tear down L'Manburg, and to destroy everything he had ever loved.</p><p>"Schlatt did get a funeral," Techno says again.</p><p>"Why did I not get a funeral?” the ghost repeats.</p><p>"You died long before Phil put that sword in your chest.”</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"The exile. Pogtopia. You were different after that. Heartbroken. Cruel. The Wilbur I knew died in exile.” Techno takes a deep, shuddering breath. "We had a long time to mourn you, Wilbur. There was no need for a funeral."</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>Technoblade turns back to his potion brewing. He takes the splash potions of weakness off the brewing stand and moves for the door. He needs to take these downstairs and cure the zombies in his basement before they become more trouble than they’re worth. </p><p>“Was I still loved? In exile? In the end?” Wilbur asks. He looks desperate, something wild evident in the way his washed-out eyes bore into Techno.</p><p>His hand is on the doorknob, and he could leave this now and spare himself the heartbreak. “You were. Tommy loved you, followed you to war despite everything. Phil loved you, you begged him to end it and he did.” Techno pauses. “And I loved you. You were my brother. I loved you.”</p><p>He opens the door and escapes before the ghost of his brother can respond.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Philza’s second son died long before there was a sword in his chest. He died in exile, buried in a ravine, and mourned by his brothers.</p><p>Philza did not hear of his son’s death till the man who called himself Wilbur Soot begged for his father to kill him, to finally end it. </p><p>The ghost finds Philza trekking through the forest, enchanted compass in hand. He is covered in layers of cloaks and furs to keep out the piercing cold of the snow-laden forest. It is strange to see Phil without his imposing wingspan. He looks smaller, older. The ghost of Wilbur Soot is briefly struck with a paralyzing fear that Wilbur’s father is getting older. The moment is quick to pass, as all remnants of the living Wilbur do from the ghost. </p><p>“Oh, Ghostbur. You startled me.” Phil says. He has a mittened hand on his chest and a cane in the other. “How’d you find your way out here?” </p><p>“Oh, I’ve been staying with Technoblade! He has a rather nice place.”</p><p>“That he does.” Philza takes the compass from his chest and looks down. “Why are you staying with Techno? Aren’t you meant to be in Logstedshire with Tommy?”</p><p>“Logstedshire is gone, Phil! Just a crater in the ground.”</p><p>Philza looks back up at Wilbur, his eyebrows pinched and mouth in a firm line. “Gone? Are you sure? What about Tommy?”</p><p>“I am sure! Tommy told me himself, he’s staying with Technoblade.”</p><p>“Oh.” Philza gets a far off look in his eyes. “That is good to hear. Let’s head back to Techno’s then. Before the storm starts up.” </p><p>“Sounds good to me!”</p><p>Philza begins stomping through the calf-high snow again, struggling as his boots sink into the powder. The ghost has a far easier time, incorporeal as he is. </p><p>“Philza,” the ghost starts his now familiar line of questioning simple enough, “Why did I not get a funeral?”</p><p>Philza falters, his boots catching in the snow, and he stumbles a bit. He stops fully, a white-knuckled grip on his cane. He doesn’t meet Wilbur’s gaze, stays focused on the snow below him instead. </p><p>“You did not have a funeral, did you,” Philza says, thinking out loud. He feels the familiar, all-consuming pit open in his chest. He releases a shaking breath and tries to control it. Guilt, like a black hole, excruciating emptiness. He remembers the slide of a sword through a body, ripping the life from his son. He remembers the blood, so much blood. And the guilt. It was instantaneous. If he had been strong enough to resist Wilbur’s pleas. If he had gotten there sooner. If he had done a better job raising him. If he had never let Wilbur leave. Then, maybe, he wouldn’t have died at Philza’s hand. He wouldn’t have died in exile, in a ravine far away from everything he loved. His brothers wouldn’t be mourning. </p><p>The guilt took over everything. Every time Phil spared a glance at the washed out, empty ghost that had taken his son’s place, it opened like a starving mouth, and pulled everything into it. A funeral had been considered, but with lukewarm responses from his surviving sons, Philza shelved the idea. And then the ghost arrived, haunting the places Wilbur loved. </p><p>He considers, briefly, lying to the ghost. Telling him that because he exists, there is no need for a funeral for Wilbur. But it isn’t true. Philza knows that guilt still consumes, gluttonous and insatiable. He feels it in every part of L’Manburg, every glance at the ghost of his son, every time Techno leaves a wide berth around the ravine, every moment Tommy is forced to stand alone against Dream. </p><p>“I was the one who killed Wilbur. I don’t know if you remember that,” Philza starts. </p><p>“I remember my death,” the ghost responds simply.</p><p>“I have not yet mourned the death of my son,” he says. “Guilt has a funny way of blocking out any other thought, any other feeling.”</p><p>The ghost blinks his grey, soulless, empty eyes at Philza. “Why are you guilty?”</p><p>“Because I couldn’t save him. Because I couldn’t save Wilbur from himself.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The ghost is not Wilbur Soot, but rather a product of his actions. An empty, sanitized, incorporeal consequence. The universe tethering Wilbur to the living and whispering, "you're not done here yet.” That’s the sort of karmic justice the universe bestows upon you when you leave; when you try to escape the repercussions of your actions. Wilbur begged his father to kill him, to free him in death. Even that, though, was a kindness too great. Now, a broken piece of Wilbur haunts the places he lived, weaving himself into the lives of the people who loved him. </p><p>The ghost knows he is not Wilbur Soot, for it is the tragedies with the triumphs that make people who they are. The ghost is a fractured, incomplete part of Wilbur. The love those hold for him is remnants of love held for the living Wilbur. </p><p>The Wilbur that lived, breathed, and remembers sits in the afterlife, watching as he haunts his family and friends. It hurts, like an amputee with a phantom limb, as a bit of him stays trapped with the living. He tried to escape the pain of his actions in death, but instead he watches as his ghost shoves clumsy fingers into old wounds, ripping at scarred skin and drawing new blood.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The ghost has an awful lot to atone for. Especially to a fox who, on several occasions, tries to shoo the ghost by waving his hand through Wilbur’s translucent form. </p><p>“Can you scram?” Fundy whirls around to face the ghost. “I’m busy, and I don’t want you around.”</p><p>The ghost blinks grey eyes at him, confused. He has few memories of Fundy. Most of them are of a small orange puffball, big eyes and bigger tail. They are filled with pride, so white-hot it nearly burns a hole in Wilbur’s chest, and glowing joy. These memories are weaved so tightly with the birth of Wilbur’s nation, they are nearly indistinguishable. </p><p>But Fundy remembers everything. His father was absent at his best of times, cruel and unforgiving at his worst. The memories are sharp, burning and slicing scars where the ghost sees only love, only joy, only hope.</p><p>There were happy memories, from Fundy’s childhood. Golden sunlight over an open ocean, waves lapping the shore. But then his father slammed his hand on a button, shouted “It was never meant to be!” and Fundy’s home was gone. Even the most idealistic of childhood memories can’t rose tint that bullshit. </p><p>The months in exile forced Wilbur inside himself, shutting out everyone except his brothers, though even they were a rare exception. Fundy though, Fundy worked tirelessly on his spy journal, noting down every little detail that could be of even a small amount of use. Even when Schlatt’s plans seemed better than Wilbur’s, when the smooth-talking president made Fundy doubt that Wilbur was really best for the nation. Fundy persisted, stood by his father and his nation till the very end. </p><p>But the ground crumbled underneath his feet. Schlatt was a fraud, selfish and addled by years of alcohol abuse. Wilbur was a usurper, blinded by his desperate grabs for power. Neither could stop before they ripped L'Manburg to shreds, Fundy caught in the middle. As the TNT blew, the earth opened up beneath him, wide and inviting as a desperate mouth, and Fundy fell to his death. </p><p>The ghost’s expression is confused, Fundy’s reasoning eluding him. “Fine.” The fox caves, “You can stay.” He passes into L'Manburg, and the ghost floats after him. The ghost watches a lantern bob in the sky as the fox mutters to himself, counting materials and double-checking his list, written in a notebook clutched in his paw. </p><p>Fundy stops where the wooden path ends, a swaying bridge over the jagged crater of Old L'Manburg. He drops his materials and bends over to begin adding planks to the pathways. The rebuilding effort is going well, the country looking better and more cohesive than it ever has. Most of the citizens are pitching in, with President Tubbo overseeing the project. There are still remnants of the obsidian walls in some parts of the outskirts, whether those remnants were left out of laziness or as a threat had yet to be seen. </p><p>The ghost sits beside Fundy, occasionally handing him a tool upon request. The silence is awkward but comforting, a juxtaposition Fundy’s in no mood to introspect. He’s nearly reached the far end of the crater when the ghost finally speaks up. </p><p>“Was there ever going to be a funeral for me?” </p><p>Fundy drops a plank directly into the crater below. It clatters against the jutting rocks, echoing over the empty expanse of Old L’Manburg. His paws shake, and he pulls himself back from the edge of the path. </p><p>“There’s… a lot of reasons you didn’t.” As Wilbur’s only son, Fundy was in as good of a position as any to organize the funeral. But Fundy was angry, too full of rage at his father and at Schlatt to even consider grieving. Wilbur spent Fundy’s childhood absent, focus drawn away from his son and to his country. Wilbur raised L'Manburg instead of raising Fundy. Then when Fundy followed in his father’s footsteps, put everything on the line for his country, Wilbur turned his back on Fundy again. He ripped a hole in L'Manburg and tore Fundy apart. </p><p>When Fundy realized that nobody else was going to hold a celebration of his father’s life and legacy, the only thing he could think was that maybe Wilbur didn’t deserve a funeral after all. Rage burns white-hot, absorbing everything in its path till it is the only thing left. The memories Fundy has of his father are singed at the edges, tainted by anger. </p><p>“Living Wilbur was not always the best of people.” The fox stares into the crater. “Maybe he didn’t deserve a funeral. He blew up his country, he blew up my home. Why mourn a guy like that?” Silence descends. Any residual comfort from Wilbur’s presence is gone. Fundy feels it, the burning fire licking at his stomach, demanding release. But there is no point in unleashing his anger on the hollow ghost, so Fundy stares and sits till the ghost floats off, leaving Fundy alone in his silence.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The ghost forgets quickly, but the Wilbur that remembers doesn’t. The hurt he’s caused is obvious. There is so much he is responsible for, so much to atone for. He will likely never find peace if this ghastly, empty version of himself keeps picking at scabs and forcing people to bleed out of old wounds.</p><p>His fingers scrape the ground as he clenches them into a fist. The afterlife is just one endless expanse of pale grey nothing. The ground is made of gravel, but the small stones are smooth rather than the sharp, jagged ones found in the living world. His knees hurt from being pressed into the ground for too long, the stones digging into his skin. He can feel things here, in the afterlife. He had been hoping for oblivion, but he wound up stuck in some middle plane watching an empty shell haunt his living family. </p><p>“Another ghostly vision?” Schlatt’s boots crunch against the stones as he walks up. The question is laced with snide laughter, and Wilbur can picture the self-satisfied grin that follows it. </p><p>“I’ll give you another black eye, I swear to god,” Wilbur says into the ground. </p><p>“Yeah ’n I’ll break your fuckin’ nose again, don’t test me.”</p><p>Wilburs turns over, lying on his back. He’s exhausted in the worst way possible, the same bone-deep exhaustion he felt when he was alive. This is not peace. He stares up at the empty sky, not even a variation in color to give his eyes something to look at. It’s dizzying. “Why are you spared of these visions?” </p><p>“Has the ghost not answered that question?” The click of a lighter and the smell of smoke brings Wilbur to a sitting position. He holds out his hand and Schlatt hands him the cigarette, lighting another for himself. Wilbur relishes the burn in his lungs, the smoke giving texture to the endless, featureless sky. </p><p>“It’s a consequence, I think. The universe making sure I know I fucked up.” Wilbur takes another drag of the cigarette, “but why am I the only one dealing with this? You’re just as bad as I am.”</p><p>Schlatt lets out a choking laugh, “You’re deluded if you think my crimes are as bad as yours.” </p><p>Wilbur doesn’t respond, just waits for Schlatt to elaborate. </p><p>“Yeah I fucking sucked, I was a shitty dude. I was horrible to Quackity, and I fucked up your kid almost as badly as you did. And I publicly executed my s– uh, fuck– Tubbo. Publicly executed Tubbo.” Schlatt coughs awkwardly. “But I was elected fairly. You agreed to the terms of that election. You, Wilbur Soot, are a usurper. You managed to fuck up Tommy and Fundy, and I’m sure that effect wasn’t lost on Tubbo. Then you blew up their country, the country you dragged them all into, before taking the easy way out and getting skewered by your own father. No fuckin’ wonder the universe wants you to atone for your sins.”</p><p>Wilbur stands quickly and fists a hand into Schlatt’s tie. “You are not better than me, Schlatt.”</p><p>“Not sayin’ I am, lover boy. I would’ve done all that shit too if I had been in your position. Doesn’t change the fact that you did those things and I didn’t.”</p><p>Wilbur lets go of Schlatt and steps back. “Maybe I deserve this curse,” he says shakily. Schlatt shrugs.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Friend the sheep is the only thing that the ghost has that is entirely his own, rather than a remaining part of Wilbur’s life. It is Wilbur’s father and brother that kill Friend, with the bomb that wipes L'Manburg off the map.</p><p>The ghost did not witness the destruction, only the aftermath. Quackity’s emotionless face as he stares into the crater. Tubbo, battered and bloody, sitting with his back to the obsidian wall and clutching his knees to his chest. Fundy, one paw pressed to the burnt-out stump of the L’mantree, the other shaking at his side. Jack Manifold, standing beside his scorched but mostly intact house, looking out over the destruction. A final wither, Sapnap valiantly fighting it alone, looking harried and strung out. And Tommy, the youngest resident of their country. Tommy, who never seemed to get used to being betrayed and ripped apart over and over again, by everyone he’s ever trusted. Who keeps getting back up and fighting no matter how many times he is shoved back down, a boot pressed to his chest, a crossbow shoved in his face. He’s on the broken edge of the prime path, where it’s splintered off over the crater that was New L’Manburg. He’s collapsed in on himself, sobbing and mumbling something the ghost can’t make out, but he hears his own name. </p><p>Across the crater stands Philza and Technoblade. They seem to be jovially chatting, gathering up their spoils of war before heading back to the snowy wasteland where they live. The ghost floats to where his own small, hidden home was, right next to where Philza’s used to be, at the edge of the crater. It’s all gone though, because of course it is. Everything that had been there, all of the books the ghost collected, all of Philza’s things, blown to smithereens. </p><p>The ghost floats across the crater to Philza. “Where is Friend?” he asks. </p><p>Philza’s face falls, he gives a furtive glance to Techno. “What do you mean, Will?”</p><p>“You knew Friend was in your house! Where is Friend?”</p><p>“Oh, Wilbur. He’ll come back. He always comes back to life.”</p><p>“You knew he was in your house!!” The ghost shouts, his voice cracking. </p><p>“Wilbur, he will–“</p><p>“STOP!” The ghost stops dead in front of his father, the man who killed him. “Why did you do it? You knew Friend was in there, everything everyone cared about was in there! People’s homes, Philza! WHY?” The uncharacteristic outburst leaves Phil staring at the ghost, eyes wide. </p><p>“They needed to learn, we needed to send a message.”</p><p>“How can you look at this and consider yourself the hero?” He gestures to the destruction behind, the gaping crater, the open wound that Wilbur himself started. “A message?”</p><p>“They needed to learn to not start another country, this place turns good people into monsters. Power corrupts, tears people apart from within.”</p><p>“I don’t know what the living Wilbur did, and I try to remember. But I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I just wrote books. I built homes for people. I sowed the seeds of peace and yet I am reaping the consequences of war. Is that justice, Philza?”</p><p>Philza looks at the ghost, eyes boring into him, but doesn’t see his son. He doesn’t see the boy he raised, the boy who sparred in his front yard, the boy who held Tommy when thunder shook the house, the boy who leaned over a guitar, fingers shakily plucking out a crude melody. Phil only sees the empty shell, the unlucky replacement, of the boy whose life ended on the other side of Philza’s sword. “L'Manburg can’t continue to exist. It killed my son, I can’t let it take anyone else.”</p><p>Philza leaves after that, following Technoblade back to the snowy wasteland.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Wilbur is curled up in a ball on the otherworldly, smooth gravel. He’s shaking, eyes closed tight. He can still hear his father’s words and see the larger-than-ever crater ringing around in his head. The ghost’s soft rage and muffled heartbreak sit heavy in his chest. </p><p>The telltale crunch of Schlatt’s boots marks his arrival.</p><p>“Wilbur? What the fuck, man.” He bends down and lays a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. “You good?”</p><p>Wilbur opens his eyes slowly. He’s still shaking but he is thankful to see the endless nothingness that has become comforting in the absence of ghostly visions. </p><p>“L’Manburg,” he croaks out, voice rough, “L’Manburg is gone.”</p><p>“Yeah no shit, you blew that hellhole up yourself.”</p><p>“No, they rebuilt it. Tubbo and… the others.”</p><p>“Tubbo… rebuilt L’Manburg?” Schlatt’s voice is strained. Something old and long-ignored lights up in his chest. </p><p>“He was president. They rebuilt. But Dream destroyed it again.” Wilbur sits up. </p><p>“Dream?”</p><p>“Dream. And Techno. And Philza.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ. Those kids can’t catch a break.” Schlatt sits down beside him.</p><p>Wilbur huffs out a humorless laugh. “Kind of our fault, isn’t it?”<br/>
“Yeah, it is.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The ghost forgets quickly. He knows L'Manburg is gone. He knows Friend is gone. But any memories or emotions associated with the day are long gone, covered in a pale grey haze. </p><p>He is sitting across from Phil and Eret in Eret’s castle. Phil is shooting him strange glances, but the ghost has not a care in the world. </p><p>“So, Ghostbur. We think we can resurrect you,” Eret says, leaning forward in their seat. </p><p>“Resurrect me?”</p><p>“Yes,” they say. “We have both been doing research, both on our own and together, and we think that we can bring you – I mean Wilbur – back to life.”</p><p>“And it will work?”</p><p>“Phil thinks this will work. I think we are missing something. But it is worth a shot.”</p><p>“Is… is this what you guys all want? For Wilbur to come back?”</p><p>Philza and Eret share a glance. </p><p>“I mean…” Eret starts gently.</p><p>“Yes,” Philza interrupts.</p><p>The ghost stares down at his greyed out hands, the yellow sleeves of his jumper. He’s sad, in a profound and foreign way. He doesn’t want to haunt these people anymore. He may see them as a family but they will only see him as less than Wilbur.</p><p>“Alright, let’s give it a try then.”</p><p>Philza stands immediately, having gotten the answer he wanted. “Good to hear mate, I’ll be seein’ ya then.” He leaves quickly, gathering whatever research materials he had brought with him. </p><p>Eret and the ghost stay seated in silence after he is gone. </p><p>“Will it feel like it did when I died?”</p><p>“You… remember dying?”</p><p>The ghost nods. “It is one of the few things I can remember vividly.”</p><p>Eret scribbles something down in the notebook placed in front of them. “That is good news, we have to recreate the moment of death. I think to call your soul back or something. The texts are… unclear at best. There is little on what the moment will feel like, I am sorry. I hope it is painless.”</p><p>“I can recreate it. I gave a speech and then begged Phil to kill me. Then he did.” The ghost shrugs. </p><p>Eret looks up. “A speech?”</p><p>“Yeah. I said ‘it was never meant to be!’ and then hit the button.”</p><p>Eret pales. They know those words, and regret them every day. They were stupider then, so enamored by the power Dream wielded so easily, so desperate to have some for themselves. They didn’t know that, even in Wilbur’s final moments, Eret’s betrayal still weighed heavy on his heart. They had been L’Manburg’s first scar, horrible foreshadowing for the history to come. “I didn’t know he said that. Philza never mentioned it.”</p><p>The ghost looks confused, “Why would he?”</p><p>“I… never mind.” They stand. “Do you need me to walk you out?”</p><p>“No, no. I’ll just phase through the walls.”</p><p>Eret nods, and disappears into their castle. They have more to think about than ever.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s only a few days later when Philza decides it’s time to try the resurrection. Eret has built a shrine, covered in objects from Wilbur’s life. The ghost only recalls some of it but he recognizes their importance. He tries to keep the strangely somber mood light with a joke about his funeral. It doesn’t work and only serves to make everyone more uncomfortable. He assigns roles for the play-acted version of his final moments and stands at the altar waiting for his death. </p><p>Tommy wanders up at some point, looking lost. </p><p>“A resurrection?” Tommy says. “Are we sure this is a good idea?”</p><p>“Yup, a fool-proof plan,” Phil says, pulling a diamond sword out of his ender chest. The sight of it fills the ghost with ice-cold dread. Tommy doesn’t say anything in response, instead walks over to the ghost and wraps him in a hug. Tommy is a head or so shorter than the ghost, so he tucks his nose to Wilbur’s chest, just as he did with his living brother before it all went to shit. </p><p>“I’ll miss you, Ghostbur,” he says simply, before taking his place beside Ranboo, who is Tubbo for the sake of the scene. </p><p>“Alright, ready Ghostbur?” </p><p>The ghost gives a shaky nod. “You start, I think.”</p><p>Philza shakes out his shoulders. “What are you – wait. You gave me the sword.” He hands the sword to the ghost. It feels impossibly heavy in his hands.</p><p>“Okay. Now we have this.” He retakes his spot. “What are you doing?”</p><p>The ghost launches into Wilbur’s speech, completely detached from the words coming out of his mouth. “It was never meant to be,” he says finally and slams his hand on the button. Nothing happens this time, but the action sends icy shocks of fear up the ghost’s spine. He turns to Philza and begs for death, “kill me!” He pushes the sword into Phil’s hands, his own shaking in a way they didn’t on the day of his death. He remembers being so sure, so confident in his choice. He had to die. Maybe that was the difference between Wilbur and the ghost, the ghost wasn’t sure he was ready for death.</p><p>Dread is spreading through the ghost, the sharpest emotion he has ever felt in his washed-out existence. He feels a pull from somewhere beyond here, beyond L'Manburg, and beyond this plane of existence. </p><p>“You’re my son!” Philza’s voice cracks. The sword in his hand is dredging up suppressed emotions, as Philza is faced with his biggest regret. Guilt, like a bottomless pit, still consumes him.</p><p>“Do it!” The ghost shouts, and then Phil plunges the sword into his abdomen and his vision goes black.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The ground shudders oddly, the strange, smooth pebbles shaking. </p><p>Schlatt immediately turns an accusatory glare on Wilbur. “What the fuck did you do?”</p><p>“Me? Why–” He doesn’t have time to finish before the ground opens up and swallows them both. </p><p>They are plunged into an endless black void. They can see just fine. Wilbur can see his own hand in front of his face and he can see Schlatt’s shocked expression. </p><p>“What the fuck,” Schlatt says. As soon as he does, a strange formless shape appears in front of them. It is the same light grey of the endless, empty sky of their afterlife; it is a human, with legs and arms, but the edges are hazy and soft, lacking any discernible features. It seems to look between them before lunging for Wilbur. Schlatt reacts faster, intercepting the thing with a “Hey!” before they both disappear. </p><p>“Schlatt? Schlatt!” Wilbur shouts into the void, utterly alone.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Schlatt lands himself in another endless, greyscale void. He is getting awfully tired of this neutral nothingness. In front of him is Wilbur but… not. He looks younger somehow, wearing the yellow sweater and beanie he had been wearing when Schlatt met him. But this Wilbur is achingly pale, grey skin and grey eyes. </p><p>“Are you Wilbur’s ghost?” he asks, deadpan. </p><p>“I am. You are not who I am looking for. Who are you?”</p><p>Schlatt grits his teeth. “You don’t remember?”</p><p>“I don’t remember much of anything.”</p><p>Schlatt, like every other person the ghost has come into contact with, remembers. He remembers the first time they crossed paths, in the land that would someday become L’Manburg. Wilbur had Tommy in tow, and Schlatt had his own half-pint shadow. He remembers laughing, Wilbur’s wit able to match Schlatt’s biting humor blow for blow. He remembers watching Tubbo and Tommy play, using sticks as swords. He remembers campfires, Wilbur strumming his guitar, the seemingly endless darkness on all sides, Tubbo and Tommy leaning into each other, fast asleep. He remembers Wilbur calling his shit when he drank too much, when he said hurtful things to Tubbo. He remembers the mounting fear that he was fucking it all up, that Wilbur would do a much better job with Tubbo than Schlatt ever could. He remembers leaving, and the way Wilbur watched him go in the dead of night.</p><p>He remembers coming back. A crueler, nearly unrecognizable version of himself. He remembers winning the election, manipulating Quackity and the results in his favor. He remembers turning a wickedly joyful grin on Wilbur and kicking him out of his own country. He remembers the way Wilbur matched Schlatt’s descent into cruelty and madness, blow for blow. </p><p>“Maybe that’s a blessing.”</p><p>“It doesn’t feel like one.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Wilbur is alone in the black void for what feels like an eternity before he’s falling again. He lands on his hands and knees, small, smooth stones digging into the skin of his palms.</p><p>“Aw fuck,” Schlatt says from somewhere behind him. “That fucking sucked.”</p><p>Wilbur pushes himself up, turning to stand over Schlatt. “What happened to you?”</p><p>“I got fuckin’ kidnapped by your stupid ghost.” Schlatt is rubbing his head, eyes partially closed. “He sent me back to the living world.”</p><p>“What? How?”</p><p>“He was looking for you. Those crazy motherfuckers are trying to bring you back to life.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The biggest benefit of the afterlife is that Wilbur has nothing but time to come to terms with his possible resurrection. He is given a reprieve from the ghostly visions of the living world, which is a blessing and curse in that he would give almost anything right now for any sort of information about what is going on. Schlatt had quickly grown tired of his anxious pacing and had begun chain-smoking further away from Wilbur. Still within eyesight, but further away. </p><p>Time passes strangely in death, and it could have been weeks or years before something finally happens again. </p><p>It started the same way: the pebbles shaking, Schlatt’s panicked shout, and the ground swallowing them both up. The endless black void had two hazy figures this time, both shorter than the last one. The first is only a head shorter than Wilbur, and the other is significantly so. They didn’t even acknowledge Schlatt and Wilbur standing there; instead, they seemed to be reaching desperately for each other. </p><p>“God fuckin’ dammit.” Schlatt whirls on Wilbur. “Why couldn’t you just die like a normal person? Always the god damn dramatics with you!”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, this has nothing to do with me!” He stares at the two figures, something deeply familiar about them, like they are people Wilbur would know even in death. “Something must be happening, in the living world.”</p><p>Waves of fear extend from the both of them, so chilling Wilbur can feel it in his bones. Their shared fear. Schlatt stares helplessly at the forms, clutching his arms to his stomach. And then one disappears. Just pops out of existence in front of them. The shorter one stays, and seems to get less amorphous, features beginning to take shape. </p><p>“Tubbo?” Schlatt says, taking a step toward the figure. And Wilbur can see that he is right. The figure's face is still obscured but the hair, the small horns, and the small frame are distinctly Tubbo.</p><p>“Schlatt, don’t touch him. You don’t want to trap him here prematurely.”</p><p>“He’s clearly dying, Wilbur! What is going on?!” </p><p>Wilbur steps toward Schlatt, placing a hand on his arm. He doesn’t know why but he has a distinct feeling that they should absolutely not touch these ghostly forms. He watches Tubbo shake in fear and wonders what happened to the other form. It must have been Tommy, Tubbo and Tommy have always been inseparable. But his form disappeared, was he out of mortal danger? Or had he already been sent to the endless grey sky? Wilbur doesn’t say anything, just stays quiet and watches.</p><p>It feels like an eternity later, but Tubbo’s ghost finally disappears too. Schlatt visibly relaxes.</p><p>“That means he survived right? Him and Tommy are okay?”</p><p>“I really hope so.”</p><p>Wilbur hopes that, with both figures gone, whatever had brought them here was over and they could return to the sort of peaceful afterlife. Then another figure appears in front of them, but this is not the same smokey grey of Tommy and Tubbo, this one is inky. Nearly as black as the void around it, it writhes and squirms. Waves of alternating fear and rage roll off of it.</p><p>“What the fuck,” Schlatt grips Wilbur’s arm, white-knuckled and digging bruises into his skin. Wilbur doesn’t shake him off, just watches in horror as the form gains shape. It’s human, the shape at least, and the only discernible feature is a mask, with a threatening grin carved into it. </p><p>“Oh god, it’s Dream.” Wilbur chokes out. </p><p>“That fucking freak of nature.”</p><p>Dream’s ghost makes desperate grabs for something, reaching out for anything to help it, to save it. It’s a horrible sight to behold, animalistic and tormented. Wilbur feels frozen in place, the rage and fear so palpable it’s dizzying, he feels nauseous. </p><p>“The bastard doesn’t know how to go with grace, does he,” Schlatt says, still not moving from his spot beside Wilbur.</p><p>It ends as abruptly as it started, Dream disappears and the void feels like a void again. No terror and no rage left to fill the endless, empty space. </p><p>They sit together, the quiet stretches out for a long time. Neither feels like talking. Nothing changes. They don’t get sent back to the place with the gravel and the grey sky, and there are no new ghosts, just the same black void. Wilbur isn’t sure how much time passes, maybe hours maybe days. He is sitting on the ground, invisible but tangible, and leaning his back against Schlatt’s shoulder just to feel less alone. The air in front of him begins to glow slightly, ghostly tendrils like smoke begin to take shape and then Wilbur is face to face with himself. </p><p>“Not this asshole again,” Schlatt groans. The ghost holds his hand out to Wilbur and Wilbur takes it. The last thing he hears is Schlatt saying, “Don’t touch that you dumb–” and then the ghost and Wilbur disappear.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He’s in the living world, sort of. He recognizes the landmarks, but the world is in shades of grey. The edges bleed together and the details are fuzzy, but it is unmistakable. This is home. He can see the burnt-out tree in the distance, and Ninja’s weird little house, and the cobblestone rollercoaster. It’s so ugly but the sight of it all fills Wilbur with burning joy. </p><p>There is muffled music playing from behind him, and he recognizes the song as Tommy’s favorite. He turns and there are Tommy and Tubbo, very much so alive, and sitting together on their bench. They both look older in the worst way possible. Tubbo looks shell shocked, eyes glazed over as he stares blankly out over the SMP. Tommy has a black eye, and his clothes are torn and stained. He is fidgeting uncomfortably, and keeps looking anxiously behind him, like he is worried everything is about to come crashing down around him. </p><p>“–And we don’t have to worry about Wilbur anymore. He’s dead. And we lived, Tubbo, we survived.” </p><p>“I know, it’s crazy.”</p><p>Wilbur laughs. It’s a little manic but not cruel. He is genuinely happy to see Tommy alive. “I’m frankly impressed. I’m very impressed with you, Tommy.”</p><p>Tommy looks around, “Ghostbur?”</p><p>“Nope, not Ghostbur.”</p><p>“What? Wilbur?”</p><p>“Hello, Tommy. Have you missed me?” He grins widely, even though he knows Tommy can’t see him. Tommy doesn’t say anything. He just stares past Wilbur, eyes wet. “You know, from day one, you – you wouldn’t have convinced me that you’d be able to successfully, peacefully stop Dream, you know? Remember when we started L’Manburg? You were a pretty, uh, short-tempered, short-fused, kind of guy, Tommy. I’m surprised you’ve managed to get this far without uh, getting yourself killed.” Wilbur visibly softens as he takes in his brother, the boy he raised. Pride, warm and glowing, thumps heavy in his chest, in tandem with his heartbeat. “You’ve really grown, haven’t you?”</p><p>“How are you here?” Tommy asks.</p><p>“I don’t really know. I know the plane between life and death became thinner. And now I am here, talking to you.”</p><p>“Where is Ghostbur?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I don’t know where that crazy son of a bitch has gone.”</p><p>“Uh–,” Tubbo says.</p><p>“Wilbur, Dream–,”</p><p>“I just want to say, Tommy, I really thought I was going to be seeing you both join me. There was a moment there…” Wilbur shakes his head and lets out a humorless laugh, “Man, I really thought we’d be having this conversation somewhere else. You never really seem to die, do you?”</p><p>“I thought you were…” Tommy looks down, face screwed up, “You are dead.”</p><p>“Yup! Still very dead. How’d you do it, Tommy? How’d you survive? How’d you get the discs back? Why’d you spare Dream?”</p><p>“I really thought I was dead there for a second,” Tubbo supplies. </p><p>“I– I worked it all out. We lived.” Tommy’s hands are shaking, and he is still staring at the ground.</p><p>Wilbur cringes. “Look, Tommy, I–,” Wilbur looks behind him, there is the slowly forming figure of his ghost. “I really don’t have much time here. How did you defeat Dream peacefully?”</p><p>“We… we went and we fought. We fought well, Tubbo and I, but he threatened Tubbo’s life. So…” Tommy trails off. “I’m unsettled by your presence here, Will.”</p><p>Wilbur shakes his head. “I get that a lot. Come on, Tommy. What did you do?” He wants to reach out, to grab Tommy. He needs these answers, this is it. He needs to know why he is here, he needs to know why he’s been haunted by his own ghost. “How did you get the discs back, man? I’m here for a – I must be here for a reason. It felt like I got separated from the afterlife, and now I’ve got this moment to talk with you. I wanna know what happened.”</p><p>“Wilbur,” Tommy says, finally, “we can bring you back.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Dream. He says he can bring you back to life. That’s why he’s still alive, that’s why we spared him. To bring you back.”</p><p>“Oh, god. Tommy,” The ghost is fully formed now, beckoning Wilbur back. This is what he had been waiting for. “This… this was meant to be freedom. Death was supposed to liberate me,” he says, to the ghost more than to Tommy. “I don’t want to live again.” The ghost gives him a sad, empty look. </p><p>“Do you not want this?”</p><p>Wilbur huffs, “Of course I don’t.” The ghost steps towards him. “Tommy I have to go. Just, take care of yourself. I am so proud of you.”</p><p>“Wilbur! Wait!” is all he can hear from Tommy before the ghost reaches him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Tommy, Tubbo, and home fade from view, and Wilbur is plunged back into the soundless, black void.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Schlatt is absent from the void this time around. Instead, Wilbur’s ghost stands in front of him. He is fully formed this time, rather than the strange, shapeless haze he had been before. He looks younger than Wilbur feels, wearing the yellow sweater Wilbur used to love. </p><p>“You’re me,” he says numbly.</p><p>“No, not really,” the ghost responds with a smile. </p><p>“Why do you exist?” </p><p>“You’ve figured that out already.”</p><p>“Will this ever stop? Will you ever leave me alone?” </p><p>Pale grey eyes turn on Wilbur. “Maybe someday. When everyone who has ever loved you is dead. When history forgets your name. Then you may know peace.”</p><p>The answer sends an ice-cold shock up Wilbur’s spine. “Oh.”</p><p>Wilbur remembers, as much as he tries to pretend that he doesn’t. He remembers the anguish in Philza’s eyes, the conflict evident as his son begged for his life to be over. He remembers Tommy’s screams as the TNT blew and the ground buckled. Chekov’s gun went off, Wilbur’s final act of cruelty towards Tommy. He remembers Fundy’s spy journal in his hands, valuable information that would change absolutely nothing. He remembers tossing it aside, the physical proof of Fundy’s faith in his father, and the flash of rejection before Fundy was able to school his features into neutrality. He remembers Techno’s grief turning to acceptance, as Wilbur sunk deeper into his own madness. Any remnants of the brother Techno knew before dying in front of him. He remembers Schlatt’s return, his cold gaze and menacing grin, and their twin descents into insanity. He remembers L’Manburg’s first scar. He remembers meeting Eret’s eyes over a button, betrayal widening the gap between them. Worst of all, he remembers the words that would haunt L’Manburg till the very end, words that rotted Wilbur from the inside.</p><p>He remembers these heartbreaks, moments the ghost is spared from. But Wilbur knows that not being able to remember isn’t the blessing he wants it to be. He can’t run from these things anymore, he can’t leave the people he loves to suffer in his place.  </p><p>He remembers through the eyes of the ghost too, watching his loved ones shoulder the burden he left them with. He remembers the way Tommy cared for his ghost, aching for his dead brother. He remembers the way Techno still loved him, even in the end. He remembers the guilt that weighs Philza down, that image of his son dead by his hand burned behind his eyes. He remembers Fundy, the painful reminder of a shattered legacy and an uncaring father all around him. He remembers the way Eret looked when they learned that, even in Wilbur’s final moments, the betrayal was still an open wound. </p><p>“That’s what you want? What the universe wants? For me to go back?”</p><p>“You have to atone for the pain you’ve caused. You can’t run from it anymore,” the ghost says. Wilbur nods, and the ghost smiles serenely. “You will do good things, Wilbur. Someday,” he says, his form beginning to disintegrate as he disappears. </p><p>Wilbur hopes he’s right.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi! thank y'all for making it this far!</p><p>big thank you to beck for helping me with this and for teaching me about semicolons, i'm so happy with how this turned out and it prolly never would have made it to that point without her. </p><p>hit me up on tumblr at dyedsheep n let me know what you think!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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